O fickle fortune! why this cruel sporting? Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day? Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me, Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. FOOTNOTES: [30] _Drumly_--Discoloured. THE LAIRD OF MUIRHEAD. * * * * * _This Ballad is a fragment from_ MR HERD'S _MS., communicated to him by_ J. GROSSETT MUIRHEAD, _at Breadesholm, near Glasgow; who stated, that he extracted it, as relating to his own Family, from the complete Song, in which the names of twenty or thirty gentlemen were mentioned, contained in a large Collection, belonging to_ MR ALEXANDER MONRO, _merchant in Lisbon, supposed now to be lost._ _It appears, from the Appendix to_ NESBIT'S _Heraldry,_ p. 264, _that_ MUIRHEAD _of Lachop and Bullis, the person here called the Laird of_ MUIRHEAD, _was a man of rank, being rentaller, or perhaps feuar, of many crown lands in Galloway; and was, in truth, slain_ "in Campo Belli de Northumberland sub vexillo Regis," _i.e. in the Field of Flodden._ * * * * * Afore the king in order stude The stout laird of Muirhead, Wi' that sam twa-hand muckle sword That Bartram felled stark deid. He sware he wadna lose his right To fight in ilka field; Nor budge him from his liege's sight, Till his last gasp should yield. Twa hunder mair, of his ain name, Frae Torwood and the Clyde, Sware they would never gang to hame, But a' die by his syde. And wond'rous weil they kept their troth; This sturdy royal band Rush'd down the brae, wi' sic a pith, That nane cou'd them withstand. Mony a bludey blow they delt, The like was never seen; And hadna that braw leader fallen, They ne'er had slain the king. ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN. BY J. LEYDEN. * * * * * Green Flodden! on thy blood-stained head Descend no rain nor vernal dew; But still, thou charnel of the dead, May whitening bones thy surface strew! Soon as I tread thy rush-clad vale, Wild fancy feels the clasping mail; The rancour of a thousand years Glows in my breast; again I burn To see the bannered pomp of war return, And mark, beneath the moon, the silver light of spears. Lo! bursting from their common tomb, The spirits of the ancient dead Dimly streak the parted gloom, With awful faces, ghastly red; As once, around their martial king, They closed the death-devoted ring, With dauntless hearts, unknown to yield; In slow procession round the pile Of heaving corses, moves each shadowy file, And chaunts, in solemn strain, the dirge of Flodden field.